Poetry Issue 4

   Issue 4: January - June 2005

John Labella


The mouse is a very silky bean

and quiet. I hunt it in my room now.

Its shadow darts in and out

of paper and plastic. Can it know

that I know as cats know, think

that it has made me think of how

vowels behave, slipping through

those consonants, rustling

with only a hint of teeth to them?

Save that vowels do not “behave,”

are mere sound, mere outbreath

as here: my mouth with o, large

enough to fit a mouse, I fear.